


Sharpening the Ax

by Hllangel



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M, UST, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 14:54:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hllangel/pseuds/Hllangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John teaches Harold to fire a gun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharpening the Ax

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tzikeh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tzikeh/gifts).



> I am super weak to these scenes every time they come up. And Person of Interest needs these scenes. Inspired by a flaily conversation with tzikeh. Beta by Donutsweeper.

"The West Side Rifle and Pistol range, Mr. Reese?" Harold asks. He's been tracking John's movements since he left the library, telling Harold that they should meet after dinner. 

"Go to my weapons cache, Harold. There's a Glock 19 in there. Register it and meet me here in half an hour." 

"You know I don't like guns," Harold says, even though he's up and moving to the cabinet. True to his word, John had left the handgun on top of the smoke grenades. "I wasn't aware that you needed an extra weapon tonight." 

"It's not for me," John says, and hangs up, giving Harold no choice but to go out and see John in person. 

It's surprisingly easy to get into the New York database and register the gun, backdated a year just to be safe. He prints out the paperwork, fetches Bear's vest and calls his car service. 

When he's shown back to his booth, he finds headphones, safety glasses, and John breaking down what, judging from all the parts on the counter in front of him, looks like a third weapon. The paper target at the end of John's lane has three random clusters of holes, showing that John was working on precision. 

"Hello, Harold." 

"Hello, John," he says, gingerly holding out the gun John had asked him to bring, but John doesn't reach for it at all. Instead, John reaches for the box of ammunition on the counter in front of him and drops a few stray bullets inside.

"You need to learn how to use a gun," John says. 

Harold places the gun and his equipment on his own counter and tightens his hold on Bear's leash. He sees the face that John is making, brows slightly furrowed, and what could almost be described as a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

The implied worry for Harold's safety isn't baseless, he concedes. Harold has been placed in perilous situations more times than he'd like to recount since he brought John into his life and his work, though that's hardly John's fault. Harold had never been adept at spotting danger to himself, and the machine won't give him his own number; not after he'd taught it to disregard threats to himself.

He doesn't say any of this out loud, though. "I have Bear." 

John plucks the gun out of Harold's hand and Harold breathes out, his back relaxing now that he's not carrying the gun. He wants to leave, and pulls Bear's leash so that they can do just that, only to find that John has managed to position himself between Harold and the door without Harold noticing the move. He knows that John won't physically restrain him, but John making himself into an obstacle is as much a psychological trick as it is a physical one.

If learning to properly fire a gun is something that he had wanted to do, he would have done it; he doesn't want to know. It's bad enough that he lets John keep a cache in the library, his sanctuary, his _home_. He'll never tell John that the only time he's willingly reached for a gun was out of fear for John's life. 

Harold leans away from John, gathering himself to go around and find the door.

As though he knows what Harold is about to do, John murmurs a few commands; they're barely audible, but enough for Bear, it seems. 

"Af, Blijf!" he says, and Bear lies down, setting his head on his legs, looking bored. John plucks the leash from Harold's clenched fingers and drops it. Bear shifts his hips and curls into a genuine resting position, bowing to John's will and leaving Harold without a viable exit strategy.

"I need you to learn this, Harold." 

John's face is as open as Harold has ever seen it, his concern showing in his wide eyes and wrinkled brow; Harold now knows that he _will_ do this. He'll probably never like guns, nor be able to achieve the accuracy or precision that John displays on a regular basis, but he will learn enough to defend himself and John. 

John moves closer, sliding easily into Harold's space, walking him towards the booth with a hand squarely in the center of Harold's back. It's not unusual for John to take Harold's arm while they walk, substituting himself for Harold's cane, though it's less common now that Harold is likely the one holding Bear. This isn't a walk through the park, though, and there's no one else here. Harold wonders whether that's by design; he can't quite decide whether that's a good thing or not. The concentrated heat of the one point of contact is growing strong enough to to mask the constant pain in his hips and shoulder, and he'd pull away to preserve some measure of professionalism but there's nowhere to go. They've reached the booth. 

"Feet shoulder width apart," John says. "Center your weight. Get comfortable." 

Harold does as he asks, using the booth for support as he moves his feet, a better option than holding on to John. He's not as steady as he used to be, but it's enough, he hopes. He wobbles slightly as one of his knees locks in place, but John's hand moves quickly from under his back to his elbow, providing a steady point of contact, so that Harold can get his balance again.

"Don't lock your knees. Arms straight out in front of you. Wrap your left hand around your right to steady your aim." John is moving again, now that Harold is comfortable in his stance. At first he thinks Harold is moving away, his hand gone from Harold's back, leaving a cold void in it's place. Instead, John moves partially in front of Harold. Not enough to impede his stance, but so that he can slide his hands down Harold's shoulders, moving his arms into the proper position. 

"Your hands should be just below eye-level," he says, wrapping his own hands around Harold's and bringing them down slightly. When he's satisfied, he moves away. 

He's not gone for long though, and he's holding a gun in the flat of his hand, barrel pointed down the range. "This is the safety," he says. "It's on right now. Don't turn it off until you're about to fire." Harold breaks his stance and reaches for the gun.

"Is it loaded?" he asks, fingers hesitating before they make contact. 

"No," John says. "Practice your stance first." 

Harold moves back into position, taking time to adjust his torso and arms, watching John make micro corrections until he's satisfied. 

"Close your eyes," he says. "This is what you come back to." 

He does. Harold lets his muscles settle where they are, arms locked in place, fingers clenched around the gun. Right now, it's a foreign object in his hands, the grip is neither smooth nor sleek, and it doesn't give under his fingers as he grips it. It's easy to memorize what it feels like. Harder to pin down is the memory of John's hands on his, the void between them right now is stronger than any memory of the heat of his touch. 

When he opens his eyes, he finds that John is farther away than he'd imagined, standing in what Harold is sure is a trained position designed to simulate relaxation. He's holding a magazine, and he moves closer when Harold breaks his position. 

John takes the gun again, holding it flat and pointing out various parts, explaining the mechanics. He demonstrates the loading process, easily pushing the magazine into place and pulling back on the slide. 

Harold moves to take the gun back, but John sets it on the counter and picks up the goggles and ear muffs instead. The extra layer of plastic distorts his vision less than expected, but the industrial ear muffs block out nearly all sound. _This is it_ , he thinks, and picks up the gun. 

John moves behind him, close, putting his hands on Harold's shoulders and helping him sink back into position. Once he's there, John moves his hands until they're lightly resting on Harold's hips, poised for something. 

He finds out what it is when he fires the first shot. He aims at the body of the target using the notch at the end of the barrel and pulls the trigger. Harold knows to expect kickback, but the force still throws him off balance, right into the solid weight of John's body. John's hands tighten on his hips and and stay. Even after Harold regains his balance and the two inches of space separating them. 

He can hear the rumble of John's voice, but not the words. He could put the gun down, take off his headphones and ask, but he's always been a believer in fixing his own mistakes. Debugging his process the same way he'd debug code. 

John doesn't seem to be inclined to move as Harold brings his hands up again, finding his position easily this time. He moves slower this time, feeling the resistance of the trigger as he pulls back on it. He feels the release of the spring, the heavy hit of the hammer, and this time he's more prepared for the kick it gives, letting the momentum carry his hands up instead of propelling his body back and out of position. He relaxes and squints down at the target, seeing that he's managed to hit the outlined body in the vicinity of the knee. 

He was aiming for the chest. 

As he's bringing his arms up for the third time, John's hands leave his waist and John steps back. With his long years of experience compartmentalizing his thoughts, Harold forces his concentration back to the paper target, and squeezes off another shot, and another. He takes his time, centering himself between each round. The target shows a clear pattern of migration towards the center. There's the first good shot in the knee, another over the shoulder, and then a ring of shots in the torso. He never manages to hit the center ring on the target, but the shots are consistent enough that he should be able to hit a still, person-shaped target in the field, at the very least. 

When the magazine is empty, Harold hits the button to eject it, and switches the safety back on before removing his goggles and earmuffs, laying everything out in a neat row on the counter. 

John is right in front of him when he turns. 

"Thank you," he says. "I need you to be safe." 

"I'm far from proficient with firearms, John." 

"It's only your first night, Harold." 

Harold's breath catches at the thought of more nights like this. Wonders if they'll be quite as intimate. He remembers each point of contact he had with John tonight and knows that it'll never be exactly the same. There's no need for John to move him into position, to stand inches away ready to catch him when he falls. He'll be prepared for the kickback and know how to avoid it. He'll have the muscle memory to move quickly and easily into a shooting stance without John's guiding hands. 

This tiny bit of proficiency is disappointing, but this is not the proper place to examine why. He can run that particular debug when he's safely at home, alone. 

Instead, he bends down to pick up Bear's leash. Out of the corner of his eye he catches a half motion. John is standing in exactly the same place at the edge of Harold's vision, but his hand had come out as though to grab Harold's arm. Harold sees him pulling back, and risks a glance at John's face, catching his features sliding into his schooled blank expression. 

The room isn't large, but it suddenly feels much too small. Harold grips the leash and doesn't turn to look at John as he says, "Well, goodnight Mr. Reese." 

He's nearly out the door when he hears a faint answering, "Goodnight, Mr. Finch."

**Author's Note:**

> There's more to this story, I promise. I'm just a super slow writer, and this part felt complete on its own.


End file.
